


John Watson: Not Quite Muggle

by suitesamba



Series: The Wand Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Humor, M/M, Magic, Potterlock, Reluctant Wizard Sherlock, Wizard Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5203256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has noted a certain magical resistance - and sensitivity - in John. He devises an experiment to test the levels of John's magical awareness, and launches the experiment one Friday evening on an unsuspecting - and tired - John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson: Not Quite Muggle

Part 3

John Watson: Muggle Test Subject

As it turned out, much to John’s disbelief and Sherlock’s immense satisfaction, John Watson was no ordinary Muggle.

Sherlock had always known this, of course. He’d known it from the moment John stepped into that lab at Bart’s behind Mike Stamford. He’d known it when John shot the cabbie. He’d known it when John came back perfectly intact – and resolute – from his first encounter with Mycroft. 

Mycroft, Sherlock knew, could be extremely persuasive, and was not above using a bit of magic here and there to get what he wanted. An ordinary Muggle would never have been able to resist his tricky little nonverbal compulsion spell.

And despite the fact that Sherlock resisted using magic himself, and purported magic to be unscientific, something one was born with, not something one achieved, he had always been proud of and intrigued by John’s apparent _other_ ness.

And for a very long time, this odd sort of pride had been enough, and he hadn’t allowed himself to explore the intrigue any further. After all, John had no idea that Sherlock was a wizard, or that magic existed, and Sherlock didn’t use magic, even though he _could_ , and was not at all likely to try to determine the extent of John’s sensitivity given those restrictions.

That all changed, of course, when Mary Morstan shot him.

He remembered very little from that day, only that things had gone horribly wrong, that he had arrived too early – or John too late. The actual outcome was one he’d never envisioned, with or without St. Mungo’s. The one thing he remembered clearly was pulling from John’s eyes enough remembered joy to produce a corporeal Patronus. 

_Like magic_ , he had thought as the falcon materialized and disappeared through the walls. 

And later, when he woke to find himself somewhere he’d never been but instantly recognized, John was there at his side, and wasn’t that impossible? John on one side of his bed, Mycroft hovering about near the door, no morphine drip, no machines softly beeping, no nasal cannula. Just John, encouraging him to sip a bitter-tasting liquid, softly explaining what had been explained to him six days and a lifetime ago Bullet removed. Damage repaired. Blood replenishing potions. Spells to keep him unconscious, immobile, monitored, hydrated. 

John Watson conferring with a doctor (Mediwitch? Healer?) wearing a gown so vibrantly green it made Sherlock’s eyes water. John watching from the door while Sherlock was levitated to hover over the bed while the sheets were changed. Surreal in all aspects, but more so than any the inclusion of John in this magical space, in a world closed-off in Sherlock’s mind palace, a world where Muggles didn’t belong.

But John – 

John.

The tells continued to mount when they were back at 221B.

_Home._

Mycroft (idiot) argued for Obliviating John. Sherlock would not have it. So Mycroft began a course of indoctrination on the sly, but of course Sherlock knew. Knew that Mycroft had an agenda, and that John was more carefully watched now, his actions analyzed from disparate perspectives – Muggle…and magical.

John takes to it so…so… _readily_.

What Muggle would writhe beneath him, restrained by invisible bounds, and beg for more? 

What Muggle would respond to the magical lubricant so carnally? So perfectly? 

What Muggle could resist Mycroft’s compelling request to spy on Sherlock? Mycroft – powerful as he was in two worlds?

There was, of course, only one answer.

No Muggle. 

Thus – thus –

John Watson was no ordinary Muggle.

Wizard? Sherlock shook his head even now, staring out the window of 221B watching John slip out of a polished black car. The evidence wasn’t there. No Hogwarts letter. No slips of accidental magic. No problems with technology – problems Sherlock and Mycroft had overcome only with applied joint effort and a great deal of trial and error. 

Then what?

Squib? 

No. Non-magical product of a magical family. No evidence of wizardry in the sister, parents or any immediate or secondary family members. Not adopted – DNA test proved otherwise.

Of course, this entire situation required further investigation. Investigation of the Sherlockian, scientific kind. Experimentation and controls. Documentation of results. Analysis, conclusions. 

Behind Sherlock, the door opened and John entered. Sherlock mentally ticked off his familiar home-from-work sequence, waiting it out. John dropped his keys on the table, took off his coat, hung it up, then riffled through the post. 

Finally, the floor creaked behind him as John approached then dropped into his chair with a happy sigh. 

His Friday sigh. Exhausted. Utterly spent after a week of other people’s problems.

“Long day?” asked Sherlock, letting the curtain fall back and folding himself gracefully into his own chair opposite John.

He realized it was an out of the ordinary attempt at small talk, and John looked up, clearly suspicious.

“What?” Sherlock put on his best puzzled face. “You seem relieved to be home.”

In fact, Sherlock was exceedingly pleased John was clearly in a staying home frame of mind. John’s presence in the flat was a prerequisite for the experiment Sherlock had designed. He’d spent most of the week laying it out, in fact, and had stocked the refrigerator with John’s favorite beer and called in an order of Thai.

John visibly relaxed.

“I am. And I’m not planning on leaving this flat tonight, not even if Lestrade calls with a quadruple homicide where all the victims were found in a room dead-bolted from the inside, and the murder weapon isn’t in there with them.

Sherlock brightened.

“Are there windows?”

John rolled his eyes and bit back a smile. “No.”

“Fireplace?” 

“No – no windows, no fireplaces and no trap doors.”

“How did they die?”

“Sherlock! Stop.” John was annoyed, but still smiling. “Maybe you need to go out and find yourself a case. Text Lestrade. Tell him you’ll take anything.”

Oh no. That wouldn’t do. Not at all. Sherlock drew up his feet into the chair and crossed his legs in what he hoped was a settling in kind of posture. 

“Do I look dressed to leave the flat?” he asked. He was still wearing his pajamas and dressing gown.

John rolled his eyes. “Asks the man who went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet.”

“You bring that up much too frequently.”

“Do I?” John smiled. “Not too many commoners can say that, you know. That they sat in Buckingham Palace wearing nothing but a bedsheet.”

Sherlock smiled back. The evening was starting off well enough, so he stood and fetched two beers from the refrigerator, wrinkling his nose at the prospect of having to consume one himself. But a relaxed John went hand in hand with a positive outcome for the evening, and prior experience showed that John let loose quite a bit more if he wasn’t the only one drinking.

When he returned to the sitting room, he stopped behind John and pressed the beer bottle into his hand as he dropped a kiss on John’s temple. 

“Mmm. That’s nice,” John mumbled happily as Sherlock’s lips moved to his neck. He turned his head and met Sherlock’s lips with his own, working a hand into Sherlock’s curls as they kissed. “I can’t believe you bought beer,” he murmured as Sherlock pulled away. 

Sherlock squeezed John’s shoulder. “You’ll find I’m full of surprises,” he said as he returned to his chair and settled back down. John opened his beer and took a long drink, letting out another contented sigh just as a knock sounded at the door.

John turned to look at the door, then resolutely turned back to stare at Sherlock. “No.” He shook his head. “No cases. If you take it – you’re on your own tonight, Sherlock.” He crossed his legs and took another drink of beer, pretending (obviously) not to watch as Sherlock stood and made his way to the door.

It was the Thai, of course.

“You bought beer _and_ you ordered dinner?”

“Surprises, remember?” Sherlock replied as he unpacked the boxes and spread them on the table, letting the smell waft toward John. 

“Alright – out with it. What do you want?” John’s voice just behind him made him jump.

“Dinner, of course,” he answered, trying to look busy. He wasn’t actually very hungry at all. He was much too excited about what the evening might have in store for them to waste time eating, but John would insist, and the success of his plan hinged greatly on a satisfied, accommodating John.

A suspicious John he could handle. John was suspicious of Sherlock’s motives nearly all the time – right or wrong. But John was a lot more accommodating with a full belly, especially if topped off with a pint or two of his favorite brew.

A few minutes later, John was back in his customary chair, plate on his lap, beer bottle wedged between his thigh and the arm of the chair. 

“I don’t know what you want,” he began, not looking at Sherlock. This was fine – it allowed Sherlock to study him, his reaction to the curry, judging whether the food was prepared to John’s preferred degree of spiciness by the colour of his face, the light sheen of perspiration. “But as long as it doesn’t involve leaving the flat, or wearing anything more formal than a dressing gown, I’m in.” He sighed in satisfaction, clearly enjoying his meal, then grinned over at Sherlock, who dutifully took a bite from his neglected plate and smiled back – artificially, but John didn’t seem to notice. “It might encourage you to buy groceries and order dinner more often.”

Well, when he wanted something, anyway. Absolutely. It hadn’t really been difficult to phone in the order for the Thai, nor to ask Mrs. Hudson to pick up the beer.

“Except - ”

John waited until Sherlock looked up – which he did fairly promptly. He didn’t much like the sound of that _Except._

“Except?” Sherlock pushed a pile of rice around his plate, waiting, preparing his rebuttal. _Don’t mention magic, John. Give me your list of things you_ aren’t _up for but don’t remember the wand._

“Except another ridiculous bee documentary,” John said, giving Sherlock a completely non-threatening glare. “I’m in charge of the remote control tonight. I hope you can live with that.”

Sherlock forced a disgruntled look on his face. “Bees are fascinating. I fail to understand your complete and utter lack of appreciation of one of nature’s most profound mysteries.”

“Mystery shymstery,” John admonished. “No bees.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine,” he said, a bit petulantly. Of course, he had no intention of watching documentaries of any kind, but John didn’t need to know that now. He tossed the remote John’s way and John snatched it from the air, looking at Sherlock triumphantly as he turned on the telly and started scrolling through the channels.

Sherlock waited until John was halfway through his third beer before he began.

He’d never planned to ask John’s permission to perform this series of experiments. The hypothesis would be more readily proven – or disproven – if John reacted naturally without knowing that anything out of the ordinary was happening. And in this flat, nearly everything was out of the ordinary, making it very ordinary indeed.

Sometimes even Sherlock was confused by that.

He began with the compulsion spell he’d been practicing for an entire week. He’d used it only today on Mrs. Hudson – she really hadn’t been very inclined to buy that beer, as it turned out. He’d used it on a cabbie yesterday and he’d gone through two red lights to get Sherlock to his destination more quickly. He’d used it on Donovan on Tuesday and she’d handed him a stack of files she really hadn’t wanted him to see. 

His wand was concealed in the pocket of his dressing gown, and while John was thoroughly engaged in a football game, he pointed the wand at him through the fabric of the pocket.

“Why don’t we watch that bee documentary now?” he suggested, muttering the incantation under his breath, wand tip still pointed at John. 

At first John looked confused. He stared at the remote in his hand, then at the television, then back at the remote. He slid his eyes over to Sherlock.

“Bees,” he said. He shook his head. “Right. Bees. No bees.” He frowned. “Sherlock – I _told_ you – we’re not watching that ruddy bee documentary tonight!”

“Ahh. Right. Of course.” Sherlock made a tick mark on his mental spreadsheet. John had just resisted the same compulsion spell that had worked on three people that very week. “I forgot.”

“You forgot my arse,” John muttered. 

“I’d never forget your arse,” Sherlock said.

John sighed. “How about another beer?”

“No thanks – three’s my limit,” Sherlock answered, studying his mobile and attempting to look as distracted by it as he usually was. 

“You haven’t had three,” John muttered, but after a few moments – moments most likely spent glaring at Sherlock, though Sherlock made sure he never looked up to catch John’s eyes – he pushed himself out of his chair.

“One for me, too, if you don’t mind,” called out Sherlock, still staring at his mobile and biting back a smile. He didn’t actually want another beer, but it was certainly keeping in character to ask anyway.

He heard John’s answering mutter, the shuffle of feet – John wasn’t yet unsteady after three beers but he was moving a bit more slowly than normal – and the distinct squeak of the floorboard in front of the refrigerator as John opened it.

The pause was long – far longer than Sherlock expected.

“Sherlock?”

There was a low warning in John’s voice. Sherlock did a mental fist pump. 

“Sherlock – why is there a human brain on one of our dinner plates and why is it surrounded by olives and celery sticks?”

Sherlock had lowered himself – absolutely _lowered_ himself – and had asked Mycroft to teach him the variant of the Notice-Me-Not spell used on objects. Mycroft had given him the choice of taking on the next five cases he brought to Sherlock _without complaint of any kind_ , or taking their parents to a single musical theater production. Naturally, Sherlock had chosen the cases. In turn, Sherlock had insisted that Mycroft teach him three new spells instead of just the one.

They’d all come in useful tonight.

Sherlock was sure he had performed the Notice-Me-Not spell perfectly on the plated brain. Neither Mrs. Hudson nor Billy Wiggins had seemed to think anything was amiss when he’d had the brain sitting on the table earlier in the day. He’d even wondered if they were too accustomed to body parts in 221B to make much of a fuss about it, and had taken the platter outside and had stood in front of Speedy’s with it at lunchtime. 

No, the Notice-Me-Not spell was good. But John had seen right through it.

John came back with beers for each of them, then excused himself to use the loo.

Sherlock used the opportunity of his absence to cast another of the spells Mycroft had taught him – a Muggle repelling spell with an associated compulsion spell. If it all worked as it should, John would be averse to picking up the remote control when he returned, and his continued proximity to it would make him very tired and ready for bed.

Sherlock _did_ need him in bed for the remainder of the experiment.

To make John have reason to use the remote control, Sherlock switched the channel to _Strictly Come Dancing_.

And indeed, when John returned, he sighed dramatically at the couple currently dancing, then reached immediately for the remote, seemingly surprised to find it on the table still and not hidden away by Sherlock.

His hand stopped mid-reach. 

He yawned.

He frowned. Shook his hand, flexed his fingers, and picked up the remote.

“Very funny,” he said. He flipped the channel back to football and tucked the remote into the chair with him, out of Sherlock’s reach. He yawned again, then stretched, and put his feet up on the ottoman.

Hmm. Obviously, Muggle repelling charms didn’t work on him either, though the compulsion spell might be causing the yawning. Or he might simply be tired.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock had had enough football. Football was boring. Well, there were arses, but you seldom got a close-up of one on this stupid telly channel, and why look at arses on the telly when John’s arse was in the flat in plain sight?

John. Not quite Muggle John.

He’d already come to the obvious conclusion that spells intended to change or influence John’s mind didn’t stick. As for his body –the invisible restraints had worked on John as well as handcuffs and a cock ring. 

Ah.

Perhaps because John had _wanted_ them to work? 

Sherlock quickly sorted through the spells he’d practiced. Tickling hex?

John was ticklish, extremely so on his feet. But he was also quite involved in the football match, leaning forward, one hand grasping the neck of the beer bottle, the other hand fisted, pumping the air as he cheered when something happened. Why did people make such a ruckus at sporting events? But ticklish or not, he was unlikely to appreciate a good tickling while involved in what was clearly – from the amount of shouting and fist pumping – an exciting match.

Well - best to strike while John was still distracted.

The tickling charm he sent at John a moment later would have hit John’s feet if he hadn’t jumped up as a great roar issued from the television. Startled, Sherlock, who’d been leaning forward slightly, fell back into his chair mid-spell, tipping his wand up so that the spell hit John precisely in the groin.

The look on John’s face at that moment would soon have its own room in Sherlock’s mind palace, and led him to the conclusion that John’s groin was particularly non-resistant to magic. Perhaps “hyper-sensitive” was the better phrase. John did what could only be described as a complicated – and impossible – mid-air gymnastics maneuver, crashed to the floor with both hands clutching his crotch, then launched himself directly at Sherlock and before Sherlock could react, had him on the floor on his back, arms restrained, and – how the hell did _that_ happen? – wand pressed against his throat.

John was straddling him in such a way that his groin was startlingly close to Sherlock’s head. The tickling charm seemed to be still at work, or only gradually wearing off, as every few seconds, John would twitch uncomfortably, giggle uncontrollably and lift his hips up.

“You do realize you’re threatening me with a wand you cannot use?”

John tossed the wand aside casually – missing a perfectly good opportunity to say something like “I could stick it in your eye” or “There’s more than one way to wield a wand.” Sherlock grimaced as it bounced and rolled across the floor - then groaned as John scooted forward until his knees were securing Sherlock’s arms and his groin was centered over his sternum. “You are impossible, you know that? And you don’t play fair either.” He twitched again, and ground down on Sherlock.

“I think I can do something about that itch,” Sherlock chanced.

John dropped his full weight onto Sherlock and Sherlock seized the opportunity and kissed him.

Sherlock soon realized he was kissing a man who was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. He turned the table and rolled over, trapping John beneath him.

“That’s got to be the worst line I’ve ever heard from you,” John said. “And if you want sex, there are better ways to get it than hexing my bollocks.”

As it would be useless to explain that he wasn’t aiming for that particular area, and that the intent had been to tickle him, not teach him aerial acrobatics, and as it seemed that sex was definitely in the offing, Sherlock wisely kept his mouth shut.

(TBC in Part 4 - Wherein Sherlock Coins a New Term for Muggles Like John)


End file.
